


until I feel whole

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Double Penetration, God Has A Crisis Of Faith, M/M, Significant Kneeling, post-Winter in Heiron
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-29 02:13:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14462790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: Samothes, returned to the world and to his husband, hunts for ways to anchor himself in a place at once familiar and alien.Or: Hadrian manages to make Samot and Samothes feel better completely by accident and gets laid in the process.





	until I feel whole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imperialhare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperialhare/gifts).



> "Give me a quick porn prompt," I said to Linda. "How do you feel about double penetration?" Linda asked.
> 
> Over 5000 words later...

This tower had grown full of new life, in the days between reunion and battle, with the Hunt providing its stay of execution. Assembled peoples of so many types, gathered around the living gods themselves. Severea and Galenica came and went. Samot held court in his finery.

And there was Samothes. Samothes of old. Once and Future King, the Church had said, and how little they had known—did they, even now, understand? How could they. Samothes himself did not, knew not truly how he had been drawn back into the world. Knew not if some essential thing had been lost along the way, or gained. 

But he knew who had drawn him, what force of love. Through what instrument.

Rosana saw that Hadrian was observed by his gods, and was untroubled. Hadrian was not a good husband, always, but he was good according to his own abilities. And the Church, she said, with scripture before her, permitted many things. Encouraged some. And in these days, one must acknowledge—

Well, her loyalty remained to the Church, but if Severea had invited her to bed she would not have refused. 

And so when Hadrian was called to them he went, with uncertain steps, half-convinced that she had by some means interpreted incorrectly—unsteady at the thought that she might not have been wrong, and at the sharp strange taste of desire the possibility inspired.

Samothes was glad to see it. And Samot was amused, and patient—but no more patient than was required. 

 

 

And indeed, Hadrian was wanted. Wide-eyed, he had let Samot slide his shirt from his shoulders—had grasped for Samot as Samothes kissed his neck, and seemed shocked at himself for doing so. And he had begged, so finely, with that hot note of prayer that settled in Samothes’ stomach, in a place which had long felt hollow—begged for another touch—bitten down on the words—shaken so badly with want only from Samot’s hands on his hips that he had seemed on the point of coming apart, the weight of divine attention too much for him.

Together they had quieted him. Together they had drunk wine and shared a little food, and then Hadrian had fumbled his way out of what clothing he had left and lain down, at Samot’s gentle command, upon the bed. 

”Hush,” Samothes said. “There. Be easy. You don’t need to worry about it. I’ll keep you from release for as long as you need.”

Ah—how Hadrian trembled, with Samot kneeling there above him—not even touching him, not now. His head fell back at those words, back against pillows on the bed, and he took such a harsh shuddering breath that Samothes had to wonder at it. He sat himself on the bed beside them both, legs folded. Stroked his fingers across Hadrian’s cheek—kissed his brow. Saw how Hadrian’s flickering gaze went to his face, to his chest where his robe was half open. To the shadowed space between his legs. Saw how Hadrian screwed his eyes closed. Hadrian gasped again. Between his legs, his cock was damp, liquid from it pooling on his stomach. Samot drew a finger through it, and Hadrian’s body jolted at the touch, simple as it was. 

“My husband took mortal lovers often, once,” Samothes murmured. “It was a gift he might give or accept. But it’s been so many ages since then. It must be a lot to take in. There. There. Relax a little. Tell me what you need.”

“Why me,” Hadrian mumbled again, perhaps for the tenth time. “I’m only your—“

“Only?” Samothes smiled—his own eyes drawn to Samot—the gold of his hair and the bright heat of his eyes. A look between them, full of the knowledge of loss and pain and hope. He bowed his head to Hadrian again. “My Sword—we have spoken of you many times since you reunited us.”

For a moment Hadrian seemed incapable of returning his Lord’s kiss, only breathing frantically against him, but as Samothes stroked his face once more he calmed.

“It is a strange service we ask of you,” Samothes said, pulling away. “I ask again: would you perform it, willingly? Without obligation?”

“He’s rarely been shy to refuse inconvenient requests in the past,” Samot said, and it seemed that edged observation did something to settle Hadrian further, beyond Samothes’ realm of understanding. Drew an unsteady laugh from him, although it drowned in his helpless arousal.

“I would serve you,” Hadrian murmured—turned his head, so that his lips ghosted across Samothes’ fingers as he spoke. “Tell me how.”

They had spoken as they ate, earlier, of acts and of wants, Hadrian confused and startled at the humanity he saw in them—yes, we are gods—did you think us some other type of being to Samol? We have flesh. See: we eat and drink and sleep in beds. And sometimes, we desire—

Samot laughed, and Samothes thrilled at that beloved sound—turned, helpless, towards Samot—Samot—Samot who was here with him, who slept in his arms again, who couldn’t help rearranging Samothes’ belongings according to his own whims. Whose love was sometimes almost too much after everything, but which he could never, all the same, feel enough of. It was hard to touch him sometimes. It was hard not to touch him, always.

“Husband,” Samot said, and his face was so much softer than his tone. “I know what I’d like.”

“And I’d see my husband satisfied,” Samothes said. “How long has it been, Samot? Did you find worshipers who begged to lie with you in my absence?”

“None like Hadrian,” Samot said. “ _Husband_. If you would.”

Samothes moved himself—behind them, close enough to massage tension from Samot’s shoulders until Samot sighed contentedly against him.

“You’ll fuck him for me, won’t you, Hadrian?” Samothes asked, and Hadrian cried out as Samot spread his hands, flat-palmed, on Hadrian’s stomach and chest. 

“Please,” he said. “Please—please—“

“I’ve wanted you,” Samot said. “Almost since I first saw you.”

With his hair loose, both his and Hadrian’s expressions were obscured from Samothes as they kissed—but he knew the stunned look on Hadrian’s face when they parted well. 

“You joined me to him again,” Samot murmured—and was the one to gasp as Samothes bent to kiss the nape of his neck, took his ass in both hands—dug his fingers in, a little, to feel Samot’s shivery silver laughter.

When Samothes pressed a slick finger into Samot, he opened as easily as ever. 

“Oh, Hadrian,” Samot said. “You can’t imagine—“

Hadrian’s next breath was ragged, and Samothes saw that Samot had shifted just so, so that the slight rock of his hips as he chased pleasure on Samothes’ fingers dragged his cock against Hadrian’s. Samothes rubbed his free hand along Hadrian’s thigh, and Hadrian’s breath stuttered again and then settled. His skin was hot, and his hands were fisted uncertainly in the sheets at his sides. 

“Touch him,” Samothes told him. Took Hadrian’s hand in his and placed it on Samot’s thigh, close to the hip—close to Samot’s cock. “Let him come on you, if you like.”

There—the shuddering convulsive tightening of Hadrian’s body—he would have come himself at only the suggestion, had Samothes’ power not held him from it. 

Samothes watched him over Samot’s shoulder—cradled Samot against him for that moment—sighed as a Samot raised a hand to brush against Samothes’ cheek—as Samot leaned his head back, still rocking his weight back onto the fingers Samothes had pressed inside him. 

When Hadrian managed to move, to brush his fingers against the head of Samot’s cock, Samot came easily—slow pulses that Samothes felt around his fingers, felt in the tense and release of Samot’s body against him. His come streaked across Hadrian’s cock. Across his stomach.

Samothes pulled his fingers from his husband’s body, despite Samot’s faint hazy protest—wrapped his hand around Hadrian’s cock, to ease the worst sharp pain of pleasure left too long unattended. Hadrian’s hips jolted, and the sound he made was close to a sob, but then Samot was kissing him again, murmuring things against his lips that were not for Samothes’ ears. 

He might have minded that, once. Before Hadrian came to him warm with Samot’s love—before everything changed and then changed again. 

Now he only stroked Samot’s flank gently, guided him back—helped him sit up again, flushed and red-lipped—guided him down in a slow slide onto Hadrian’s cock.

“All well?” he asked Hadrian. A hand on his trembling thigh.

Hadrian nodded, quick and jerky.

“You’re not going to ask me?” Samot said, teasing and raspy with pleasure at once.

Samothes laughed—kissed the place where Samot’s shoulder met his neck—kissed the corner of his jaw—turned Samot’s face with a firm gentle pressure to kiss him softly on the lips. The taste of Hadrian’s mouth lingered there.

“All well, husband?” he asked.

“Nearly perfect,” Samot said. Still that quiet laughter.

Samothes tugged at him, shifted him so that he moved on Hadrian’s cock, the angle changed—both Samot and Hadrian gasped together, Samot delighted and Hadrian urgent.

“Didn’t you want to ride him?” Samothes asked. “Go ahead, my love.”

“You ought to let him come, at least,” Samot murmured. “Cruel of you—look.”

Hadrian had thrown a hand over his eyes, and his mouth was open, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“Should I?” Samothes asked Hadrian, and Hadrian shook his head hard.

“No—please—“

“He wants to serve you like this for as long as you need him,” Samothes said. “To deny that would be crueler—don’t you think?”

“I think you may be mistaking who he serves,” Samot said. “But that doesn’t matter. I’ve accepted—hm—“ He tilted his body back, weight shifted so that Samothes, kneeling behind him, was the only thing keeping him upright as he rolled his hips lazily, one hand loose around his own cock. 

“We have something in common, he and I,” he added—made a quiet pleased noise again as Samothes pressed a hand to his stomach, below the navel—dragged his fingers through the hair there.

“Oh?”

“Love for a fool, of course,” Samot said, and this time when he twisted to kiss Samothes his mouth was hungry.

Not even an attempt at a barb, so much of the _love_ was threaded through the words. Only a gentle reminder of—oh, so many things. 

They had led Hadrian into such deep waters. How easily he might drown.

Samothes pushed Samot’s weight forward to allow himself space to lay hands on Hadrian. On the soft skin of his inner thighs where his legs were parted to allow Samothes space. Made the touch warm and comforting and felt Hadrian’s pulse settle, his muscles unclench.

“Does it feel good, Hadrian?” he asked, when Hadrian seemed calm, and when Hadrian nodded it was no longer entirely frantic. He let his hand fall from his eyes, and the skin around them was damp, but it was with wonder that he looked up at them. 

“Could you manage more?”

“I think so,” Hadrian said, and it was clear from his voice that he had begun to sink—not into dangerous dark water but into a softer place where his mind could grow still. He reached out a hand and lay it on Samot’s knee, fingers curling weakly. 

“Would you like to?” Samothes asked.

“Yes. Oh—“

“Samot,” Samothes said, and Samot, body beginning to tense again with building pleasure, made a questioning noise. Samothes didn’t laugh, but felt the laughter in him, the soft affection of it. Ached in the aftermath of that laughter, but pleasantly, like pressing just so upon a bruise and remembering with fondness how one had received it. “Come here.”

Samot and Hadrian were pliant for him now. Let him rearrange them with firm hands and low commands, until Samot lay back against Hadrian, head falling back on his shoulder instead of on Samothes’. Samothes bent to kiss them, Hadrian and then Samot, the one with care and the other with the sort of fire he could never offer a mortal thing.

Sat back to look at them, Hadrian’s arm looped tentatively around Samot’s waist—Samot shifting his weight with restless arousal, heels sliding on the sheets. 

Samothes kissed him again—heard Hadrian’s faint gasp. Saw the moment Hadrian realised that Samothes was touching Samot, pushing fingers deep into him, curling them, rubbing at him so that his body jolted a little, trembled—the stunned look Hadrian had, feeling every reaction of Samot’s—to be so close to this intimacy of theirs, the whole of it made suddenly more real to him. 

When Samothes bent himself forward between their spread legs to kiss Samot’s chest, Hadrian gasped again—a deep sharp inhale. A kiss to Samot’s stomach, just below Hadrian’s hand, and Samot gave a quiet moan.

Samot’s cock had never stopped being hard even after he came for the first time, and now it was leaking again, the taste so familiar in Samothes’ mouth. I missed you, I missed you—

“Please,” Samot said, so quietly that Samothes might have missed it, had he been less attentive to every sound Samot made in these new days, every breath, every sigh. He slid his fingers out of Samot, back in, feeling how little resistance he met. Bowed his head to swallow Samot’s cock, taking him deep and slow. 

“Please,” Samot said again. 

There was a tremor not only to his muscles but to his voice now. A hitch that turned the end of it into a cry, rising and shaking as he spilled into Samothes’ mouth, body tightening and relaxing.

Samothes pulled back. Kissed Samot’s hip. His shoulder. His mouth, soft and lingering. 

“Both of you at once,” Samot said. 

He was still riding aftershocks, but he had always been hungry, so rarely satisfied.

“Of course,” Samothes said. “That’s the idea, isn’t it, Hadrian?”

Hadrian was as achingly hard as ever when Samothes touched him. As Samothes guided him back into Samot, fingers teasing at the rim of Samot’s hole as he did so, letting Samot feel that first hint of extra stretch. 

“Oh, husband,” Samot murmured. “Don’t be so gentle with me.”

“I’ll do what I please with you,” Samothes said, a quiet tease that made Samot laugh softly, as though the world were what it had been twenty thousand years ago. As though they had never parted. Never treated one another cruelly. 

Samothes had to kiss him again—had to. Had to sit back again, after, to see how it looked as Samot fucked himself slowly on Hadrian’s cock. The stretch of his hole, yes. The tensing of Hadrian’s hand against his stomach, the transcendent expression on Hadrian’s face.

No quick thing, to stretch Samot open, careful fingers, long slow kisses between the three of them. Hadrian’s eyes were closed, lids fluttering, brows drawn together. Oh, it could have been quicker—could have required nothing at all—but how beautiful they were, his husband and his paladin, unsteady with pleasure, unsteady with anticipation of more. 

“Why did you pursue Hadrian, husband?” he asked, and Samot laughed, grasped for him, tugged him close. “Did you see something of me in him?”

“You’re being awful,” Samot said with love. Cried out as Samothes pressed him down onto Hadrian’s cock and onto two of Samothes’ own fingers. His nails were for a moment bitingly hard as they dug into Samothes’ arm, like a dream of claws. He found his breath again. “I saw—something of myself—I told him—oh, oh—I told you—“

How confessional Samot had been those first nights, when he feared that he might have dreamt Samothes—when he had seen how Samothes struggled to orient himself, to even move himself through this larger world—when they were too awed by the fact of their reunion to do more than lie together and speak quiet words—to touch one another’s faces, remapping love there. When they had grieved together for—oh, but better to leave that from this bed. 

Beloved, beloved man. Strange wolf boy, wild joyous king. 

Sweet mourner, enumerating your mistakes.

Even at war, how I loved you. 

Even alone, how I loved you. 

Samot shuddered between them, and Hadrian shuddered with him. Samot curled forward, forehead to Samothes’ chest, breath hot and damp on his sternum. Both hands clung to him. Hadrian trailed him, helpless—full of a need that must be beyond all experience. 

Oh, my Paladin, who followed me although I was lost. Oh, my Paladin, who carried my love back to me and me back to my love. My Paladin who I love in and of yourself, although you must find that love’s shape strange—

“Hadrian,” Samothes said, and Hadrian gasped a response that might have been _my Lord_. 

Samothes held the sound to himself. An anchor in a world which felt at once too large and too small. 

Here: his husband, his Paladin. Here: a bed in a room in a tower in a forest in a world, a world that was Heiron, that was yet alive.

”My husband needs you,” Samothes said. “Would you hold him for me? 

Samot kissed his chest, above the heart. Lay back in Hadrian’s arms. Two beautiful deadly things. 

Hadrian buried his face against Samot’s pale neck, and Samothes knew that need well, far better than such a short-lived man as Hadrian could ever understand.

Against Samothes’ fingers, Hadrian’s pulse was heavy, but it was Samot, now, who spoke soothing words to him—touched his hands—tilted their heads together. 

When Samothes adjusted Samot’s position, nudged his legs wider apart, he didn’t pause in his soft litany.

When Samothes lifted him a little, made sure Hadrian had him held firmly in place, pressed him open and finally slid his own cock against Hadrian’s, a shallow penetration, a little deeper with every rock of his hips, Samot’s body so hot, squeezing around them—oh, even then it was Hadrian who cried out—who sobbed—Samot only clutched at Hadrian’s hands where they were pressed to his chest and his stomach, grip hard, and kept speaking—good, don’t you feel, isn’t he, aren’t you—

It was only in Samot’s eyes that Samothes could truly see just how shaken he was—just how much he _felt_ , held between them, taken by them. Oh, yes, he was aroused—but that was common enough. This, though—

He bent forward over them. Stroked Samot’s cheek, brushed a thumb across his lip, and Samot’s mouth quirked against it, quick and tight and all the same the confirmation he’d sought.

Hadrian’s lips were moving silently against Samot’s skin. The unspoken words carried that soft heat of prayer.

Samothes cupped the back of his head. Stroked his fingers over Hadrian’s short hair. 

“You don’t need to pray,” he said. “I’m right here.”

Hadrian moaned into Samot’s shoulder.

“You’re thinking you’re not worthy,” Samothes said, and Hadrian nodded, eyelids fluttering again.

“We need you,” Samothes said. “Don’t you feel it? You’re not dreaming it. My Sword, my Paladin.” Hadrian’s cock pulsed against his, and Samothes allowed himself a groan, the feeling surprising and close.

A kiss to Hadrian’s brow. Samot’s breath was a repeated gasping warmth against his neck.

He sat back to watch them. To see how Hadrian clung to Samot, how Samot arched against him. Curled his hand under Samot’s thigh to spread his body, to see how he and Hadrian filled Samot. Together. The stretch of Samot’s entrance around them both.

Hadrian’s cock slid deeper into Samot at the shift, and Samot moaned now, open and unrestrained.

Samothes touched him with wonder. The inside of his thigh. His balls, tight against his body. The rim of his hole—

“You could take more,” he said, and he ought not wonder at it—had seen Samot do so many things—had done so many things to him, and watched them done—knew how pliant his husband loved to make his own body in this.

Still.

When he ran his thumb along the place where their cocks were joined with Samot’s body and felt how easy it would be to press it inside, he did—wonder at it—at how much Samot _wanted_ , and how much he wanted it, still, to be from Samothes, and from Samothes’ most beloved weapon.

He had always been such a hungry creature.

He was not entirely the man Samothes remembered, had not been what Samothes expected—had seemed so lost and fragile, when Samothes stumbled back into the world. But just now—just now—full of fire and need—

Samot’s hands were on his face, and it was like this that he realised he was crying, silent tears that came without sobs, only with a deep ache in the chest—in every hollow part of him, perhaps.

Samot shuddered, shuddered—held onto him, all the same—rolled his hips, gasping at every movement. “It’s been lifetimes,” he said. “Lifetimes since anyone had me like this—oh, husband—it was so—I always longed—”

I’m sorry, Samothes wanted to say. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But why? Neither of them could have done other than they did—not back then—

Let me use you better than I have used others before you, Samothes thought, touching Hadrian’s burning cheek. 

Let me learn a little kindness.

He didn’t know whether he could.

Perhaps—perhaps—

Perhaps one had to try—

Samot’s breath went from gasping to ragged as they fucked him, small cries on every inhale and every exhale that seemed to tear his throat raw.

Every muscle in Hadrian trembled, beyond soothing.

Pleasure hummed in Samothes, tempered with this strange sad wonder—a little too distant, a little beyond his reach—a building wave far out at sea. A need he could feel it would take a long time to relieve. Even like this.

“You can come,” Samothes said, and felt that he wavered at the words, his power flickering with his will—and Hadrian was sobbing again, his release shaking his body with a convulsive force. Samothes held it to himself, wound it around all of his own desire and longing and pleasure, let it tighten, let it shake him. Almost, almost, almost enough.

Samot surged up to kiss him—an effort—levering his weight up with a hand curled around Samothes’ arm. Samothes, trembling with the closeness of release, with love and longing, hadn’t even the presence of mind to help him—to shift to stay inside him as he moved. But Samot was kissing him, kissing him, something frantic to it, both of his arms thrown around Samothes’ neck—their cocks dragged against each other, and it was enough, finally, finally—it was enough.

He felt, for a while, that it would never end—that his body would simply shiver with aftershocks for the next year, the next hundred years.

Samot lay him down with gentle hands—turned and reached for Hadrian, pulled him close. Hadrian was very quiet now, and Samothes registered it hazily, smiled for him. “You did so well,” he said. “My Hadrian.”

He was still crying those strange silent tears. He felt curiously unable to understand why. 

“My Lord,” Hadrian said. Samothes watched as Samot turned to Hadrian, kissed his eyelids, kissed his lips—a chaste gesture, peculiar when Hadrian’s come was still streaked over the insides of Samot’s thighs. “I feel like—I’ve intruded—”

Ah—not because of the sex, perhaps—but the tears. This Church of Hadrian’s that was devoted to his worship and yet was not his—did it think a god ought to cry before his people?

This thought too was distant.

Samothes leant his head back against the bed, closed his eyes as Samot stroked fine-boned fingers through his hair. 

“I allow no intrusions,” he said. Quiet. Drifting, almost, but not towards sleep. His sense of his body began, finally, to coalesce into something like itself. His mind was more reluctant.

But Hadrian knelt, still, at Samot’s side.

He focused on that. An anchor for that faltering will of his.

“Come to me,” he said, to Hadrian. Drew his Paladin to him, so that Hadrian lay cradled against his chest—so that Samothes could wrap his arms around him, and kiss his head. Samot sat by—regarded them with serious eyes. Watchful. 

The Last Wolf Alive.

Hadrian’s weight and warmth settled into Samothes’ body. Life. Just a little of it. Not taken, but borrowed, a flint and tinder for his soul—something used, but not consumed.

He breathed deeply.

 

 

Samot stood at the window, an outline in the flood of light from a late afternoon sun. Loose hair, a short dressing robe that barely fell past his hips. It was hard even when he turned to see his face. A goblet of wine in his hand, his head tilted back as he drank.

Samothes could imagine the quality of his smile, could feel that he _was_ smiling. But there he was. Space granted.

“I would care for you,” Samothes said.

“You—you have.” Hadrian’s eyes were startled, as startled as they had been at the beginning of this. Sitting on the edge of the bed, naked, sweat cooling on his skin, he was terribly beautiful.

“I would clean you,” Samothes said. “And dress you. My Paladin, may I?”

“If you will it—”

Water and a cloth. Samothes knelt before Hadrian, on the stone floor of the chamber.

Hadrian’s eyes were wide and dark, and he shivered at the cool damp cloth that Samothes drew across his skin, but it was a quieter thing than his unsteadiness as they lay together, quickly settled again as Samothes established a slow rhythm to his care.

“When you came to me,” Samothes said quietly. “When you came to me—I had been dead for so long. Not gone, certainly. But—dead, all the same.”

He could feel the shifting weight of Samot’s attention settle on the back of his neck.

“You had been ordered to do so many things—by my husband. By my son. In another age I would have known what to expect from your appearance, but I had, as I said, been dead for so long—

“And you still knew me. I felt it. You had no doubt.”

Hadrian’s hand jerked towards him, faltered.

“Please,” Samothes said, and Hadrian’s hand settled tentatively on his head. 

Warm.

“This world cannot decide if it has a place for me still,” Samothes said.

By the window, Samot made a soft noise that might have been—anything, in truth.

“Sometimes I suspect that uncertainty might unravel me. I am not _made_ for uncertainty. I am not made, either, to be—”

He sighed. Bent to wipe the sweat from Hadrian’s legs. Kissed him upon the knee. Sat back on his heels to clean Hadrian gently between his legs. Hadrian’s fingers curled in his hair. Hadrian’s body bowed forward, just a little.

“You were told the story.”

They had discussed it. It had been among the first things. Hadrian, with so many questions, so much confusion and need.

“Yes,” Hadrian said.

“I made my purpose finite,” Samothes said. “I gave it an end. And now, with that effort long failed—”

“My love,” Samot said, behind him. Oh, they had spoken of this too, but he knew how every piece of this tore at Samot.

Samothes leaned his forehead against Hadrian’s stomach. Hadrian’s hand cradled the back of his head as he, earlier, had cradled Hadrian’s.

“I am divine,” Samothes said. “I cannot be other than myself, and yet I am not alone in that selfhood, have not been—your Church is not shaped by me, or for me.”

Samot took two steps, the noise almost below hearing. Stopped.

“But you are for me,” Samothes said. “Aren’t you?”

“Always,” Hadrian said. “Always—”

Samot’s laughter was soft. No bitterness.

What strange days these were. What sorrow and what unexpected pleasure.

Hadrian’s lips parted easily for him this time, when he rose to kiss them.

Hadrian’s body was pliant as Samothes dressed him. Settled his clothing piece by piece, adjusted it minutely.

When they were done, Samot came to them again at last.

“I thought I might want to hate you,” he said. “For loving Samothes so much more than you loved me. But I find I am only glad that he is loved, after all. I find I am glad that you hold such affection for me that you would touch me as you have, even if only in my husband’s service.”

“Not only,” Hadrian said.

Samot smiled. “Mostly. Don’t trouble yourself. I understand. But would you kiss me, all the same?”

Samothes watched them: Hadrian’s hands not buried in Samot’s golden hair but only resting on it. Samot’s eyebrows furrowing in anxious pleasure, then easing.

His hands on Hadrian’s hips.

He smoothed away the creases he had left there when he was done.

“You taste of him,” he said. Laughed, again, still soft. Such an echo of Samothes' own earlier thoughts. “Perhaps that was all I wanted.”

Hadrian’s gaze flickered downward. Samot’s robe wasn’t pulled closed.

“Nearly all I wanted,” he amended, unrepentant. 

His cock was soft between his legs, and they had done so much today, but certainly a quiet part of Samothes wanted nothing more than to bury his face there, kiss Samot’s cock, suck him to hardness. The feeling lacked the sharpness of lust—it was only a need for closeness, for the smell of Samot—yes, for the taste of him.

He felt unlike himself. He felt more himself than he had for an age of the world. Lost and anchored.

He took his turn kissing Hadrian one more time. Yes, Samot lingered there.

When Hadrian began to shiver at the weight of Samothes’ soft desire he pulled away at last.

“Go to your wife,” he said. Cupped Hadrian’s cheek in his hand. “You are hers. But if she wills it, and you will it, come to us again. You’re good for me, Hadrian. In this strange world.”

He stood and watched as Samot walked Hadrian to the door—as they spoke quiet words together, framed there in its opening. As Samot, with a wicked smile, kissed Hadrian’s hand.

And Hadrian was gone, and Samot turned to him, and Samothes took care, so much care, there in the presence of a love he had thought long lost, to remember to breathe.

 

 

The tower lived. People moved endlessly through their days and nights. Hadrian spoke with Rosana, fumbling after words for an experience that could not be explained, and she listened, and held his hand, and when he had finished she kissed him, and pulled him to their bed, only to lie together, in peace.

Above, Samot and Samothes curled around each other too, closer, easier than they had been before in one another's arms. Lay together in that other sense, Samot fucking Samothes with aching slowness, their hands tangled together on loose sheets.

Simpler, now—to not only hold Samot but to kiss him deeply—to feel himself real enough to touch, to feel desire hot enough inside himself to spill over. 

In a sense, he thought, he might only be a shadow—a thing long-dead that dreamed of being Samothes, pulled back into the world in error. But Samot had only been a shadow who dreamed of a name, and Samot had always felt perfect in his arms—had always had life and spark to him.

Yes—let them live—let them be real enough to fight. Let Hadrian’s strange single-minded faith for once be well-deserved.

Let Samot have the companionship he deserved. The love.

He felt more real at every touch. At every word Samot whispered against his skin. Yes. Yes—Hadrian had given him a gift—so many gifts—

“You’re real,” Samot said, fervent. “Oh, my love, I’m so afraid every day that you’ll just—but you’re real. You’re real.”

I’m real.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on twitter at [toftochfyren](https://twitter.com/toftochfyren), where I mutter about writing a lot. Some of it isn't even porn.


End file.
